


An End Weight

by hannathing



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Ableist Language, Chronic Pain, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-04 19:43:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1790917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannathing/pseuds/hannathing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wears his pain like a tattoo on his body. Its an anchor, pulling and pulling and pulling. It's a fact of his life, he wakes, he aches, he breathes. He thinks its fine, just fine, ok? Until Steve finds out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An End Weight

**Author's Note:**

> [A playlist that goes hand and hand with this fic!](http://haleswallows.tumblr.com/post/88533956672/listen-inspired-by-this-imaginebucky-post-and)
> 
>  
> 
> Albeist language tag is for my use of the word "dumb". I use it a lot, and I apologize. Please avoid this fic if the word makes you uncomfortable.
> 
> Disclaimer at the bottom

Bucky is tired. So very fucking tired, and he doesn’t get why people won’t just let him sleep. In fact, he finds that sleeping at night is nearly impossible, and usually just passes out in the middle of random activities.

Watching a movie? Time for a nap. Reading the news on Steve’s computer in his office? This would be a great time for a nap! Laying on the floor in the kitchen, trying to shove your stupidly big metal arm under the fridge for the lid to the salsa you just dropped? Hope you had nothing else planned, it’s time for a nap.

Sam usually walks in, turns on his heel, and walks out when he sees Bucky passed out. Nat usually sits on the couch and does whatever she does to occupy her time until he wakes up. Or, if he’s asleep on the couch, she shoves him off the couch so she can do whatever it is she does to occupy her time. Clint laughs, sticks as many magnets as he can on Bucky’s arm, takes a few pictures, and then wakes him up. Stark has JARVIS wake up, and Thor trips over him.

Bucky can’t count on all his fingers and toes the number of times he’s woken up with a blanket and pillow from his impromptu naps. Steve is always nearby when he wakes up.

But it’s funny, they all laugh about it. Bruce makes a couple comments how all the sleep might be his brain trying to repair itself. Bucky doesn’t say how he doesn’t sleep very well at night, between the dark and the ache in his bones. Doesn’t talk about how he feels like a human barometer, feeling a rainy day coming for days before. Doesn’t tell Steve some days he feels 97, with the creak and the shudder he feels on bad days.

It took him a while, to realize he hurts, realize that he shouldn’t.

It takes everyone else, especially Steve, even longer to realize it too.

Nat figured it out first. She always does. It was one of the first days of winter, where it truly starts getting cold, the snow coming down droves. They were sparring, trying to shake the cabin fever. Bucky feinted, tried to whip around his metal arm, tried to make a wild grasp and pulling himself in close to her to try to get his flesh-and-blood hand under her guard. His shoulder shuddered, right where metal meets collar bone, couldn’t quite move fast enough. Really, he didn’t stand a chance, and he finds himself flat on his back, knows he should kick his legs out, take her down too, she’s too close to his prone form, should take her down and use that momentum to get up and pin her.

But he can’t. He aches and he aches, and he breathes and he closes his eyes for a second—

“You’re hurt,” she says, matter of fact, in that dry tone of hers.

“ ‘m fine,” Bucky growls out, opening his eyes, laying still, waiting for the perfect moment.

Nat raises her perfectly sculpted eyebrows, and Bucky tries not to roll his eyes. She steps a little closer, hips cocked to one side, a considering look on her face as her eyes rove over Bucky’s chest, to his left shoulder, his left arm. She inches closer, leans to offer a hand to help him up—

Bucky swings his legs around then, knocking hers out from under her. Uses the momentum of his body to pitch his mass off the mat, metal arm coming down to stabilize the movement for a just a movement, doesn’t let the wince twist his features for even a second, and forces his breath steady even as stabbing pain rocks through his shoulder, down his ribs and into his spine. Nat’s already rolling away, forcing distance between them.

“You’re hurt,” she repeats, crouching, eyes fierce. She watches as Bucky straightens up, stands stock still, just like he always does, never taking a fighting position, just letting the violence erupt out of his body. “You didn’t deny it, didn’t say no, just fine. You’re hurt.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

So Nat figures it out first, but she doesn’t say anything to anybody because Bucky doesn’t. And Nat’s good like that, not saying anything unless she knows you want it said, unless you say something first. She values a secret, knows when it’s important to hold it close.

Tony, surprisingly, finds out second. Bucky’s just been cleared, finally cleared, for his first mission. Fury stares him down, and Bucky stares back, unsure if he’s himself or the Soldier in that moment.

“You wear the collar. If you take it off, it explodes. If you run, it explodes. If you attack one of ours, they press this button,” he holds up a tiny remote, “it explodes. The end. Do you understand?” Bucky nods, eyes static in his head. The words rattle around in his head.

Steve is outraged, says he refuses, Bucky is a hero you know, he won’t stand for this, won’t let his best guy be treated like this—

Bucky reaches out, lays a hand on Steve’s forearm, tries to smile but he’s sure it comes out as a grimace. It always comes out as a grimace.

“It’s ok, Stevie,” he says, voice hoarse and rusty on the old nickname. “I’ll wear the collar.”

And he does wear the collar. As he walks into the bunker, shifting and rotating his metal shoulder in an attempt dispel some of the ache, Bucky breathes in and closes his eyes for the briefest of moments. The Soldier opens his eyes and exhales. The ache falls away, the world narrows. _Mission: Eliminate threats, secure time for Black Widow_ is all that rings in his head, over and over.

Objective, destroy target, objective met. Objective, prevent threat from detecting Black Widow presence. Objective met.

There’s a moment, where Bucky panics, feels the hand of a threat tighten around the collar as they grapple. He flails, comes down harder with his metal arm, hears a break, a sharp gasp, a tear, a bloody gurgle of breath. Doesn’t think, doesn’t think, doesn’t breathe for a moment, stands, feels the ache, and turns to meet the next threat.

The day after the mission is a bad day, with extra ache and pain as a price for the moments without while on the mission. Stark walks into the lounge room, glances once at Bucky sitting, dazed, eyes unfocused with a book open in his life. He shrugs, leaves him alone as he pulls open the fridge and shuffles things around in an attempt to find something not fucking water to drink. His eyes find Bucky again, focusing momentarily on the bruises on his neck, only on the one side.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, leaning back to see Bucky from where he still standing in front of the open fridge. Bucky stares still, doesn’t seem to notice Stark spoke at all. He sighs. “Yo, tin-man, does it hurt?”

Bucky jerks, broken from his reverie. “Wuzzat?” he asks muzzily. Stark levels him with a look.

“Do they— Jesus Christ, do the bruises hurt?” he asks again, hand vaguely gesturing to his own neck. Bucky blinks slowly, lethargically lifts his metal hand up to his neck to rub at the bruises. Only, he winces as he lifts his arm but not as he touches the mottled skin.

“I guess? Hadn’t really noticed.” Stark crosses his arms, eyes finding Bucky’s shoulder, where the sleeve of his tshirt is rolled up over the shiny metal.

“You’re hurt,” Stark states, matter-of-fact, and Bucky can almost taste the smugness on those words. “Hey, hey so idea, I got an idea—.“

“No.” Bucky stands, blanket falling from his lap, and woah, since when was that there? Was Steve here? Did he come in? Stark slams the fridge door closed.

“Wait a sec, there’s—.“

“No,” Bucky says again, word dropping from his lips and it feels like a stone. He starts for his room, just down the hall, next to Steve’s and his dumb office, and his dumber big room with book shelves and an easel he never uses and a desk for drawin’—

“Seriously, hang on a second, Iron Giant, that arm has to be painful, I could find a better way to integrate it with your natural physiology, it would lessen the strain—“

Bucky doesn’t hear the rest, just lets the door slam shut and revel in the cool quiet of his room.

He slithers into his bed. Steve had once said something about it, how it was funny how he got into bed now. So different from before, his voice always hitches on that phrase, so different from before when Bucky would fall into beds. Just tip back on his heels until the bed was rushing up to greet him, taking him away to sleep. Steve said he was always so jealous how quickly Bucky could fall asleep, back then.

Bucky doesn’t fall back into bed anymore. It reminds him too much of hands pushing his shoulders back, taking a mouth guard between his teeth, the taste of electricity and blood sticky on his lips, the smell of piss and sweat and fear—

Instead, he gingerly pitches forward, hunching shoulders, right flesh and blood hand on the mattress first, taking most of his weight, then his cold one, trying not to let the metal snag and rip the bedding. Next his knees, then stretching his arms forward, slowly lowering himself onto his stomach.

He can’t sleep on his back anymore, can’t sleep with the phantom chair at his back, the blank ceiling above him. Can’t sleep on his stomach, not with the suffocating feeling or the ache in his shoulder and ribs. Instead, he sleeps on his right side, right leg sprawling, left leg bent, right arm straight down, hand shoved between his legs, metal arm pillowed on top. He sighs happily as he wiggles, finds the perfect cradle in his pillow, sheets pulled up, wrapped around his cold arm to prevent it touching flesh.

He closes his eyes, wills for sleep and for healing, knows it’ll come, it’ll come once he’s past the point of crying, after Steve’s checked on him at least once, after he’s gotten up a handful of times. He’ll sleep for a few hours, wake when Steve’s coming back from his run to make them breakfast. Then Steve will leave to do whatever it is he does during the day with Stark, and the others, and some agents he doesn’t care enough to know the names of.

Maybe he’ll even get to take a nap.

He manages to sleep in a little, and when he wakes up, he hears quiet chatting. Cracking his door open, Bucky snatches a glance of Stevie and Stark on the couch. They’re talking in hushed tones, Stark with one of his tablets in his lap, quickly tapping and spinning the thing, tilting it for Steve to see every few moments. Steve has a sketch book open in his lap, and he alternates pressing a marker to the page, giving Stark considering looks, or shaking his head. Bucky says fuck it to himself and pads out quietly to the kitchen.

As he passes by Steve, he presses his metal hand into Steve's shoulder for just a moment, doesn’t so much as refuse to look at Stark but denies his existence. Steve smiles and leans into the touch for the fraction of a moment, no break in his quiet sentence, something about homeland security, original intentions, and floor plans. Bucky can almost feel Stark’s eyes boring into him. He shifts minutely in Steve’s dumb double-XL sweater he’d stolen when he first moved in, likes the cool of the kitchen tiles on his bare feet.

He digs through the fruit bowl, trying to get past the bunch of disgusting bananas Sam keeps buying. Flesh and blood hand closing around an orange, he leans against the island, carefully peels the orange. Remembers Steve carefully taking his hands in his own, prying his fingers away from an orange that he’d crushed into more pulp and juice than a fruit, just a few days after he’d come back to the big dumb blonde. Remembers looking up into Steve’s face, his eyes trained on their hands, comforting sounds coming out of his mouth.

The orange is the perfect amount of sweet and tangy, acidic on his tongue. Steve’s saying something again, poking at the tablet, and gesturing to his sketch book, but Stark is staring at Bucky, eyes flicking down to his left shoulder and arm, then flitting to his other arm. Bucky stares back, face blank.

He opens the fridge, pulls out the gallon of milk, finds it with a single swallow in the bottom. His head whips around to Steve, and he can almost see the glee written in the man’s shoulders, as if he knows what’s about to come out of his mouth.

“I’m going to the corner store for milk, and I’m taking your wallet, punk.” It’s a good day.

The next time he sees Nat, she's sitting at the big table in the lounge area with Stark. They’ve got their heads bowed together over something. Bucky pads past, lightly touches fleshy fingers to her back, makes a beeline for the kitchen, trying to decide if he wants to bother eating, or just go lay in Steve’s bed.

Steve’s bed is better, they have the same mattresses but it’s just—Steve’s bed is better for some reason.

His stomach aches, a nauseating roil, and his back feels stiff, tight. He knows it’s going to rain tomorrow. Maybe he’ll go for a walk, lay down afterwards.

“Yeah, but if we do that, then there’s a chance it’ll cause metallosis, and yeah, he has super healing but—“

“Stark, you honestly think—.”

“Yeah, Ginger Snap, I think—.”

“You’re an idiot and I think—.”

“Hey, heyheyhey, I’m the one with the—.”

Bucky leaves the room. He lays in Steve’s bed and manages to sleep a little when said owner of the bed comes in and sighs. Bucky stretches, slowly, deliberately, cataloging all the catches, all the movements that cause twinges of pain.

“They scare you off too?” Bucky smiles in response, curls back into the bed as Steve sits and shucks off his boots.

Sam asks him, Sam asks him how bad it is. Just like that, so simple, no preamble.

They’re sitting in the lounge, and Bucky has the tiny laptop Stark gave him out, browsing news sites, trolling through Wikipedia and devouring articles. Sam’s there too, but Bucky isn’t sure why. Never asks, doesn’t care why, just nods a welcome.

“Man, scale of one to ten, one being an itch and ten being you would rather die than continue the pain you feel, how bad is your pain?” Bucky stills, carefully sits up, pushing the laptop away. He doesn’t look at Sam, frowns, and looks at his mismatched hands in his lap. He shrugs. “Come on,” Sam pushes a little.

“I don’t know,” Bucky says, voicing his shrug. He feels the frown pulling at his lips. He looks out the window, over-looking a city that’s his, that he barely remembers, doesn’t even recognize anymore. “I just—a four, or maybe a three?”

Sam nods, lets it be, goes back to his book. Bucky shifts, and looks back to the laptop. Suddenly he isn’t so interested in current events, but also can’t bring himself to retreat into his room.

It isn’t the last time Sam asks about it though.

Every time it’s just the two of them, and a quiet moment, he’ll ask a single question about his pain, nod, and then go back to whatever he’s doing without a response. As if he didn’t derail Bucky’s thoughts for a solid couple of hours.

“Is it always a four, or does it get worse sometimes?”

“Sometimes,” Bucky licks his lips. “Sometimes, it’s worse.”

“When is it worse? With the weather?”

“Yeah, after missions too.”

“I read this thing, Barnes, talking about chronic pain, and chronic fatigue, and how they feed each other and—“

“You ever think about doing swimming or shit to manage your chronic pain? That shit is magical, let me tell you.”

And there it is, a name for what Bucky wears in his bones, carries on his being like the star on his shoulder, like a tattoo on his body. The part of him that’s still young, and free, and smiles, and dances, and loves Stevie flares a little at the term, latching onto it, holding it close as a life preserver in the face of haze, and confusion, and pain. The Soldier closes his eyes, breathes in the word, and exhales it, letting it go.

He doesn’t have much use for it.

Steve figures it out, and it’s the worst.

It’s the worst worst worst. He’s achey, and tired, hasn’t slept right for a few days. Feels worn thin, doesn’t even know if he’s a person anymore. Not Bucky, not the Soldier, not James, or an orphan, or a 90 year old man. Just in pain, and so so so fucking tired.

He’s given up on his bed, even tried to lie in Steve’s bed. Just couldn’t get comfortable, couldn’t find a way to lie that didn’t pull at his shoulder, or make other parts of his body start to ache. Instead, he’s laying on the floor in his room, between the bed and the window. He’s on his side, pillow between his legs, propping his metal arm up, comforter bundled under his head and shoulders. His eyes find the sky, gray and blue, and clouds and birds, and he feels heavy.

He closes his eyes, furrows his brow, breathes in deep, counts, lets it go. Does it again, just breathes, in through his nose, out his mouth, just like the web article said on pain management that Sam showed him.

He doesn’t cry. Doesn’t let himself. Doesn’t think about the metal grinding his bones, the weight it adds.

Of course, he doesn’t hear his door open. The only time he doesn’t hear his door open.

“Buck?” Steve calls out, doesn’t seem to see him on the floor, behind his bed. Bucky can’t bring himself to sit up, can’t bring himself to even say a thing, just squeezes his eyes shut, keeps on breathing in and in and in. “Bucky?” he calls out again, stepping further into the room.

He spots Bucky on the floor, back to the bed. “What are you doing on the floor?” His voice is light, almost laughing. Like he’s about to make a joke, like when he teases Bucky for reading, laying on the floor in the lounge, or when he finds Bucky curled up with all the coats in the entryway closet. “We got so much furniture, why you gotta lay on the floor? What is it with you and floors, anyways....”

His voice trails away, noticing the miles of tension in Bucky’s body. “Bucky?” His voice shakes, and Bucky finally uncurls himself, wills his face blank. “Bucky, what’s wrong?”

“Nuthin’,” Bucky slurs out, straightening out a bit, breath catching with the movement. Tips onto his back, right hand pressed against the seam of flesh and metal. The pressure seems to take the edge off the pain. Doesn't stop the deep soreness, only makes it less sharp. It throbs under his palm.

"Oh god," Steve starts and Bucky knows, just knows how scared Steve is right now. "Bucky, are you hurt? What's wrong? How'd ya get hurt?" The questions flow out of him while he crouches down, getting down onto the floor with Bucky. Reaches out but doesn't touch, as if he's scared of making it worse.

Bucky almost wants to laugh, wants to say something about how he followed some punk through Europe to stop some Nazis and ended up falling off some stupid train. Can't bring himself to open his mouth, can't find his voice or his humor. Instead he screws his eyes shut and forces himself upright. Steve does reach out then, putting a steadying hand on his right elbow when Bucky overbalances. " 's ok, not that bad."

Steve raises an eyebrow and Bucky would give it his best glower on any other day. Instead, he hunches forward, metal arm cradled in his lap and he tries to take some of the weight off the ruined joint. He bows his head, feeling like an echo of a person. No, he was already an echo, more asset than human, more machine than man. Now he's even less than that.

"Hey, hey," Steve murmurs, scooting in close to Bucky. He wraps big arms around him, pulls him in close, gingerly. Bucky lays his head on Steve's shoulder, tries not to sigh when Steve runs stronger hands up and down his spine. "How bad is it?"

The words aren't there. He doesn't know how to answer, so he rubs his face into the soft tshirt over warm skin, closes his eyes tight. "Bucky." Steve's voice rumbles under his cheek, and he can hear the emotion and plea bleed into it, knows he has to answer.

"Usually," Bucky licks his lips, keeps his cheek pressed against the ball of Steve's shoulder. He starts again. "Usually, it ain't this bad. Hurts some everyday, and I don't sleep too much. Just today...."

Steve breathes in deep, hands still running up and and down his back. "Where does it hurt the worst?" Bucky drags in a shuddering breath, wills away tears and sobs. He doesn't have any use for them, doesn't have the strength to spare on them. He pulls himself away, straightens up just enough to get his right arm between them. Presses his hand to the warm and cold seam, trails fingers to his collar bone and down to his ribs. He keeps his eyes down, can't bear to see what sort of expression Steve might be wearing, the anguish and guilt.

Steve lays a palm where metal meets shoulder blade, and Bucky leans back into his space. Warmth seeps into his skin from Steve's palm. They stay like that for a long time, sitting on the floor, Steve's hands kneading the tension out of Bucky's back.

It's dark before they move.

The next morning, Bucky feels a lot better, all things considered. He'd slept about as best as he thinks he ever will. Leaving his room is hard though. He can hear Steve in the kitchen and can't quite still the fear in him that things will be different, that Steve will look at him with pity and guilt. That'll he'll be treated small and breakable.

Breathing in and in and in, he opens the door and walks to the kitchen. Steve's got his back to him, hears his bare feet on the tiles and turns, the smile he always wears on his face.

"Mornin', Buck." Bucky nods, and sits in the chair he always sits in, plate already set. Steve pokes at the pan a few times before coming and tilting half of the scrambled eggs onto Bucky's plate. The rest goes onto his own. "Watcha want for dinner?" he asks like he asks every morning. Bucky mumbles out something about he could make them something, pasta sounds good. "Nah, we can just order out. I mean, you probably don't feel up to it--"

"I wanna cook," Bucky says, meeting Steve's eyes. "I wanna make lasagna."

"Ok," Steve concedes. The rest of breakfast is quiet.

Later, they're on the couch in the lounge. Steve's watching something or other on the TV that Bucky doesn't care about as he reads about memes on the little laptop. His legs are in Steve's lap, Steve's hand on his ankle, thumb rubbing circles into the skin. He hears something about gorillas and sign language and a cat from the TV. It catches his attention for a second until he hears the telltale sound of Sam's stompwalk. Hears Clint drop something in the kitchen.

"Yo, man, I found this great article. Sup, Steve. Anyways, Barnes, this article," he greets, and promptly grabs the little laptop from Bucky's lap. "Ugh, memes, the fuck is wrong with you?" He mumbles as he types, quick and sure. "Alright, alright, here we go. It's the 'Spoon Theory'[1] and this woman with Lupus wrote it--"

"It’s never Lupus!" crows Clint, craning his neck to see into the lounge.

"Except for the one time it is. Anyways, yeah, Barnes, read it." He plops the laptop back in Bucky's lap and he looks at the innocuous blog page in shock. "Hey, loser--" he calls out to Clint, making for the kitchen.

"Get in we're going shopping?" Sam snorts.

"Seriously, shut up and stop with the pop culture references for like ninety seconds. I got an idea, bird brain." Bucky vaguely realizes Steve has stopped rubbing his ankle. "So, idea. You, me, in the sky. You following me?"

Bucky shakes his head, turns his attention back to the laptop. He glances up to see Steve's eyes on him. "Do you wanna," he licks his lip, "wanna read it with me?" Steve nods, and they shift, pressing together from knee to shoulder, the little laptop half on each of their thighs.

Clint and Sam laugh loudly in the kitchen, something falls to the floor with a crash and they laugh even louder. Steve shifts, reaching a hand out to the track pad. Bucky bows his head forward, feels small and strange and unsure. He rests his head on the shoulder next to his, his metal arm practically in Steve's lap. Steve leans into him, pressing back into his space.

They read the article, and Steve hums when he reads a line he likes. Bucky feels like he’s floating outside of himself as the words filter through his brain. He closes his eyes, and breathes in, holds the air tight in his lungs when they can’t take anymore.

“Is it like this for you?” Steve asks, eyes trained onto the comments of the blog post. Bucky nods, knows he’s sees it. “Is it always like that?”

“No.” Bucky’s voice feels raw and crackly. “Some days I have more spoons than others. Most days I have enough, some days….” He shrugs, can’t finish. Steve nods, leans into him more, and they stay that way, watching Steve’s weird documentaries.

It becomes a thing. Steve and Sam ask if he has enough spoons to come running. Sam asks “Hey man, if you got enough spoons later, let’s go to a veteran’s group tonight.” Gets asked about his spoons all day long until he wants to scream about it sometimes.

Until sometimes, when he’s crashed on the couch and asked how he’s doing, he can say “outta spoons” and people just leave him the fuck alone.

And just like that, everyone knows. Clint and Bruce and Thor and Stark and Nat and Stevie. Bruce talks to him about holistic cures, talks about meditation and heat therapy and yoga. Thor claps him on his good shoulder and tells him he knows of charms and spells the old warriors of his home use. Clint doesn’t treat him any differently at all.

One morning, Nat and Steve huddle together in front of the little laptop. Nat has her feet up, and lazily scrolls along. Bucky narrows his eyes at them, loves them both, but knows they only get into trouble when left alone with one another.

He’s about to open his mouth to chastise her in Russian when she whips her head around to him. “Pchyolka,”[2] she starts and he snorts. “No peeking, go stuff your face with the cinnamon buns Sam made us.” Bucky opens his mouth to retort then glances into the kitchen. He knows if he wants some, he’s gotta get in there now.

“I will,” he says, points to her with a metal index finger. “But not because you told me to.” Steve’s shoulders are shaking, and Bucky feels a smile on his face. A small one, and it feels true.

He forgets about it. Forgets about Nat and Steve scheming, forgets about Stark and his nearly constant observation of his prosthetic. And it’s funny, it seems alright. He’s tired, and he aches. But sometimes it’s like it’s the 30s, and he’s young and light and free. And other days, he’s an anchor, dragged down by pain and his metal arm.

“Happy birthday, Buck.” He’d forgotten that too. He rolls slowly onto his back from where he was curled up in his bed. Steve stands at the foot of it. Bucky narrows his eyes, knows that look all too well. Pushing himself up, he sits.

“What did you do?” he demands.

“Nuthin’,” comes the retort with a snort, but Steve still stands with his hands behind his back. “Come on, outta bed, ya bum.” Bucky grumbles and flops back into his nest of blankets and pillows. He mumbles something about he dun wanna and just lemme sleep, Rogers. It makes Steve laugh, bright and true, and Bucky tries not to grin into his pillow. “Come on, you gotta get up. Don’t you want your presents?”

Bucky stills, or really freezes. He looks up to Steve and he can see Steve shift, suddenly uncomfortable.

“Uh well, you see, I told Nat so she could help me because I wanted to get you something special and I needed help, and so I told her. And then Tony asked why we needed to borrow one of his jets for an afternoon and suddenly—.”

“Everyone knows?” Steve nods. Bucky grumbles in earnest this time.

Thankfully, the day goes quickly. He gets custom magnets from Clint, that he knows are more for Clint than him. Sam gives him a couple books, some fictional, some not. Bruce tells him about a trip he’s planning, and invites him. Tony says he’s still working on his gift and Bucky glares suspiciously at him. Nat smiles enigmatically when she says she didn’t get him anything.

Bucky shrugs, he wasn’t expecting anything at all.

But Steve, Steve always does too much for him. He smiles shyly, and starts rambling a little.

“Nat helped a lot, because I knew what I wanted to get you but didn’t know where to get it,” he stops for a breath. “If you don’t like them, it's okay. Nat kept telling me you’d like them but I just wasn’t sure—." Bucky doesn’t hear the rest because he’s opening a box and there’s Captain Ameribear and Bucky Bear and the smell of lavender.

“You got me teddy bears?”

“They’re aromatherapy bears,” Nat explains. “You put them in the microwave to heat them up, then you can use them as a heating pad.” Bucky nods, pulling out Ameribear.

It feels floppy and soft, but surprisingly heavy in his hands. Guesses it’s because of whatever they filled it with instead of stuffing. He turns it over in his hands, and there’s its shield. Bucky Bear looks up at him from in the box, in his old blue coat. He runs metal finger tips over it.

“Buck?” He looks up, sees Steve and concern and quiet. He tries to summon a smile.

“Thanks, Stevie.”

He doesn’t use them often, scared of wearing them out, scared of the lavender wearing off. So he saves them for his worst days, days where he wakes, knows he’ll be low on spoons all day. It’s a bad day, can feel the rain coming, known it for days. Last week’s mission is still tugging at his bones, making him ache in a special way.

“Come on, Old Glory,” Stark demands from the doorway of the lounge. “We’re going to be late.”

“I thought that was the plan?” Steve retorts, hands adjusting his tie as he leaves his room. Bucky rolls his eyes from his nest on the couch. Pillow, blankets, the little laptop, remote to the TV, a number of books and Captain Ameribear.

“Yeah, five minutes late. Not 70 years,” he sneers at Steve.

“Alright, alright. Buck, you want anything before I go?” Bucky shakes his head and waves them off with his good arm. They’re almost out the door when he yells out to them.

“Take an umbrella!”

“JARVIS calculated the weather, Red Star. It’s going to be clear,” Stark responds, hand clenching on the door handle. Bucky props his chin on the back of the couch, and raises an eyebrow. The stare down makes Steve look between them both, heave a sigh. He grabs an umbrella and shows it to Bucky, as if to ask “happy now?”

“Alright, Bucky, we’ll be back in a couple hours.”

Bucky nods, and waves them off again, flopping back down onto the cushions.

The silly press conference barely holds Bucky’s attention. He alternates watching it in between the commercials of some weird cartoon he found about a human boy, his stretchy yellow dog, and a bright pink princess. Steve looks kind and handsome and solid, where Stark is flighty and charming, sassing the reporters every chance he gets. Bucky forgets what the point of the conference was, something to do with SHIELD, not that he cares much.

He groans, pitches forwards onto his stomach until his metal arm is dangling, fingers brushing the carpet. The joint aches, and he pushes his shoulder into the couch cushions. The pressure eases the pain momentarily, but it slowly builds again, the pull of the weight of the arm more. He groans again, grabs Ameribear from where it fell on the floor and hauls himself up to his feet.

He imagines a spoon flickering out just from the simple action.

Trudging to the kitchen, Bucky props the bear in the microwave and set the timer. He stand, watching the bear slowly rotate on the glass plate in the ever clean microwave. He doesn’t know who cleans it, but he’s thankful. When the microwave beeps, he considers letting it sit for a moment so he won’t burn his hand. Instead, he shrugs and pulls it out with his metal hand.

Sighing, Bucky sits back on the couch, cradles the bear to his chest as if it were a baby he was about to burp. It’s a little too hot, and he shifts yet another stolen tshirt to take some of the heat from his skin. He rests his head on the cushions, and lets the warmth ease his aches.

He doesn’t remember when he fell asleep, didn’t even notice himself drifting off. He wakes up to a warm bear tucked under his arm, positioned almost perfectly to where it aches the most. It takes a lot, but Bucky convinces himself to sit up and look around himself.

The TVs been turned off, and the worst of his mess has been cleaned. Trash and dirty dishes nowhere to be seen. He notices he’s been neatly tucked into his blankets, cloth folded under his feet in the way Steve only does. Bucky smiles a little, kicks his feet free, and stands, Ameribear still cuddled to his chest.

Down the hall, he hears humming, knows it’s coming from Steve’s stupidly big and bright drawin’ room. Honestly, Steve doesn’t use it often. Mostly he likes to be around everyone, so he draws in the lounge a lot. Only uses the big room when he needs his space, or when he doesn’t want to disturb whatever’s going down in the lounge.

Bucky pads into the room, stands quietly in the doorway as Steve hums along with the music playing. He smiles a little, feeling soft and content. He hurts, but it’s just a small thing now. It’s a bad day, and that’s alright with him. ‘Cause he’s got his bear, and Steve, and people who care about him.

He steps further into the room, comes right up behind Steve and rests his head on his shoulders. Crowds in close, let’s his toes touch Steve’s heels. Steve freezes, and then relaxes.

“Hey, Buck, feelin’ better?” he asks, voice low. His voice rumbles in his back, and Bucky sighs into it. Nods, lifts his flesh and blood arm to wrap around Steve’s waist.

Steve turns, pulls him into his arms, pushes his nose into Bucky’s hair. “Good,” he breathes, and Bucky feels himself relaxing, barely holding onto his still warm Ameribear. They stand like that for a long time, until Bucky’s shoulder starts to ache a little from holding the now cold bear. He lets it fall, presses closer into Steve.

It’s ok, though. Sometimes it isn’t ok, and that’s ok too. He sighs, and holds onto Steve. Feels the other man’s warmth his aching joint. Doesn’t care that Ameribear is on the floor and cold, he’s got Steve.

It’s ok.

**Author's Note:**

> 1 [Spoon Theory](http://www.butyoudontlooksick.com/articles/written-by-christine/the-spoon-theory/i) [return to text]
> 
> 2 Pchyolka is Russian for "bee", Nat's nickname for Bucky based on the sounds his metal arm makes. [return to text]
> 
>  
> 
> This fic is based largely on my own experiences with chronic pain, and everyone has different experiences. My pain is different from my mother’s, and hers is different than anybody else’s. Chronic pain is different considering the source. My mother suffers from a disease; I suffer from a traumatic injury. Thus, my experience is entirely circumstantial. Based on this, I thought my pain would be more similar to Bucky’s. It is also worth noting that heat does not always ease pain. For others, ice packs are more effective. For me, neither work. I was tempted to make it be like that for Buck as well, but let’s be real, I love the idea of him with a lavender scented heated Captain Ameribear. 
> 
> Anyways, I have done extensive research on prosthesis for personal reasons. If I haven written anything erroneous, please message me. I would like to fix it.
> 
> Thank you, I hope you enjoy the fic. Come talk to me on tumblr too! I'm [haleswallows.](http://haleswallows.tumblr.com)
> 
> No seriously, come bug me on tumblr. I need people to talk about my Bucky/Chronic pain headcannons with.


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